


seven for a secret

by gracequills



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Six of Crows Fusion, Arson, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Implied Karlnapity, Inspired by Six of Crows, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Not RPF, Threats, based on dream smp characters, gang leader and hired assassin to lovers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracequills/pseuds/gracequills
Summary: Dream shrugs. "Shame makes men talk," he says, voice a lilting melody.There's something sick about the way he threatens an innocent man's death, but George can't bring himself to care. The glint in Dream's eyes makes his blood rush in his ears.Saints, he wants to kiss him.
Relationships: Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Comments: 24
Kudos: 127





	seven for a secret

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is very vaguely based on the first scene from leigh bardguo’s six of crows series. you don't need to read it to understand the fic. inspired mostly from quackity’s stream on 3/16,,, dirty crime boi indeed. my mind said dnf soc au and my grubby little hands obeyed. 
> 
> disclaimer!! this fic involves the dream smp characters more so than my other works, especially for c!quackity and c!dream. this is NOT rpf and has not been tagged as such. please don't be weird, and also mind the tags. six of crows has some pretty dark themes for YA and a lot of them carry over into this fic. however, young adult is young adult, so i'm rating this fic teen and up. **content warning** for character death, blood/injury, and violence/threats of violence.
> 
> that's it for notes! i hope you enjoy <33

George is a Crow in every sense of the word.

Even if he didn't have ink staining his right wrist, branding him as one of _them,_ curling around the pale skin lazily, he'd still consider himself one. He's up above, after all; his favorite place to be. Up here, on the rooftops, the world seems to halt for just a moment. It's laid out before him like a feast at a rich man's table, and George is _starving_ for it.

 _Mine,_ George thinks giddily. It's addictive. Heights make his blood rush, his head go dizzy, his feet more surefooted. _All mine._

But this turf isn't his; it's Dream's. Dream, whose splendidly long fingers clutch at the world around him. _Dream,_ who needs his help right now defending said land. Land that the Crows won fair and square. George might be a lying, cheating, murdering bastard (by his own admission, too), but he has loyalty. _No mourners, no funerals._

From his perch on top of a nearby building, George watches the proceedings. His footsteps are light on the rooftops, featherlike, practically silent when he settles in to survey the square down below. He doesn’t need to intervene—not yet. He’s a shadow. He’s the Wraith. He is Dream’s secret weapon, and he will stay that way.

He stills, and he waits.

His role is familiar. George has always liked to climb, to tuck himself into small spaces not meant for people. _You're more cat than person,_ Dream has told him more than once. Each time, he's had to jump out of the way of George's elbow with a wheezing laugh.

The Exchange—a wide open square usually filled with merchants and criminals alike—is near-desolate at this hour as the men below prepare for their confrontation. The old street traditions dictating this parley require for neutral territory. After entering through the West Gate, Dream had sent George up to the rooftops with little more than a lingering glance and whispered instructions.

_Watch the rooftop guards. Make sure they're not in Q's pocket._

He glances at the guards now: two men, average height, on opposite rooftops. Their red coats gleam in the moonlight, buttons shining like bullet holes down their fronts. Even with the rifles in their hands, George feels no more safer. The likelihood that these guards have been paid off by Quackity is extremely high indeed.

The Exchange below is a ghost town: surrounding businesses locked up tight, windows boarded. To George's bird-eye view, Dream’s little entourage looks almost harmless. _Almost_. George’s eyes flick over the men with a practiced familiarity, picking out details: Sapnap, wielding a butterfly knife in one hand and a lighter in the other; Eret, both hands tucked into their pockets to hide the gun on their thigh; Punz, face masked, with arms crossed across his chest. Dream isn’t one to need a team. Dream works alone, or with George, and that’s usually enough.

The man himself stands in their midst. Despite the fact that Dream—by the very definition of average—shouldn’t be remarkable, he draws George’s attention immediately. He’s everything and nothing all at once. Blond hair, freckles, a chipped tooth that gives his smile a lopsided charm. Scarred hands, fingerless gloves, a white ceramic mask tied to his belt. He has his axe slung over his back, too, its razor-sharp edge shining in the dim twilight.

The moon continues rising, bright and full in a way that seems fit to burst. George wouldn’t be surprised if the liquid light trickled down from the sky, down his cheeks, soaking into his clothes. Dream would look good in moonlight, hair damp with light.

That line of thought is dangerous, but George thinks about the way Dream would act with moonlight on his skin—aloof, untouchable, godlike—and about the way George would look next to him, wreathed in shadow. One in darkness, one in light.

Sapnap’s voice drifts up to George when the man below laughs, the sound startlingly loud in the night air. “You ready for this?” Sapnap asks Dream, elbowing him in the side.

Dream’s expression betrays nothing. “I’m ready,” he says, voice even. George isn’t prepared for the way he cuts his gaze up to the rooftops. Their eyes meet, and a thousand words pass between them in a split second. "Why wouldn't I be?"

 _I’ve got you,_ George wants to say. _I won’t let you fall._

“You sound scared. You’re going to kick his ass,” Sapnap says. He sounds like he believes it. Undying loyalty threads its way through his words like a bright orange ribbon. He’s ready to die here, today, for Dream.The thought should unsettle George, but it doesn’t.

Dream holds George’s gaze, even as he directs his words to Sapnap. “Oh, come on now. I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Dude, shut up,” Sapnap says with a groan. “The fake fucking humility gets old after a while. You could kill them with your pinkie finger.”

Eret snorts. “I think what Sapnap is trying to say,” they interject, always the mediator, “is that you shouldn’t be afraid.”

Dream’s smirk could cut through glass. “Oh, I’m not afraid,” he drawls, and the tone of his voice makes George’s stomach do a series of flips. “They're the ones who should be afraid."

They probably are. Dream's name is a curse, a whisper muttered throughout Ketterdam's streets. The hiss of a death sentence. _Dream._ Even though the man himself is more a nightmare than a dream.

George had asked Dream about it, once. _Why'd you pick Dream?_ he said, curled up in the windowsill of Dream's attic room. Dream had been _Clay_ then, young and bright-eyed. Nothing like the monster that roams the streets of the Barrel now. 

Dream had frowned. He was staring up at the ceiling, tossing a small black ball in the air and catching it in his palm with a rough _thud_ everytime. _Come again?_ he'd said. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

 _Your name,_ George clarified. _Thud._ Silence fell, punctuated only by the sound of the ball hitting Dream's hand.

 _Can't a man have his secrets?_ Dream said eventually, but there was something dangerous in his tone. Something that told George not to pry further. Too bad George had always been awful at following orders.

 _Why not 'Nightmare'?_ George pressed, and he watched the way Dream's expression shuttered. _It's what they call you anyway._

There was quiet for a very, very long time. George thought Dream wouldn't respond until his voice came out quietly, as though he was talking only to himself. _I'd like to be_ your _Dream,_ he said, and George's insides did a series of cartwheels that left him breathing hard.

Dream has always commanded a room with his presence. Even now, he holds up a hand to halt Sapnap and Eret's bickering. Instantly, they stop. George finds himself marveling at the quiet power contained in Dream's fingers. "Be quiet. It’s almost midnight.”

In a fluid motion, Sap pulls his pocket-watch out from inside his coat. “Shit, you’re right,” he says, a last protest, and he hurries to compose himself. Eret behaves similarly. Silence stretches out between the Crows down below, strangely loud in its monotony. The word turns. George can hear the waves of the ocean, smell the salt on the air.

It doesn’t last. “No mourners,” Dream hums to his friends, his seconds, gaze still locked with George’s.

“No funerals.” Sapnap’s, Punz's and Eret’s voice tangle together in the familiar chant, rising up towards George like smoke. It’s intoxicating. He mouths the words himself, feeling their truth in his chest. _No funerals._

The clatter of boots on cobblestone signals their rivals' arrival, and Dream tears his gaze away. George feels the loss immediately, and he rubs his thumb over the hilt of his knife to remind himself where he is. It grounds him, if only briefly. Air, salt, smoke, pain.

He stiffens as the footsteps grow louder and three men traipse through the East Gate, backs stiff and silent. Compared to Dream’s ragtag crew, they look tall and strong, as though they were cut from cold Fjerdan wood for this very purpose. George only recognizes a couple of them: Q's seconds, Schlatt and Wilbur. Both men tower over their leader in an almost comedic way.

Dream leans in, mutters something to Sapnap. George can’t quite read his lips as Dream slides the infamous mask into place. Moonlight reflects off its surface, eerie. George shivers.

After another quick scan, he realizes that the others are taller than the Crows. Their leader—a man shorter than Dream with black hair that peeks out from around the brim of his hat—steps forward, grinning. A scar splits his face from top to bottom, right across his left eye. It suits him, George thinks; otherwise, the man would look completely unthreatening.

“Dream!” the man chirps. “It’s been a while, man!”

The mask betrays no emotion. “Quackity,” Dream says, the word a statement in itself.

Both of them take a step forward, and their seconds follow. George watches as each man pats his opponent down in an easy ritual, meant to check for weapons.

First, Wilbur and Schlatt survey the Crows. Schlatt checks Sapnap and Eret, one after the other. Wilbur checks Punz, and then takes his time patting down Dream, his hands long-fingered and quick. He grins at the other man as he does so. "Fancy seeing you here, Dream," Wilbur says, like they've met at a bar and not at a confrontation. "I like the new clothes. You look good."

Dream's sneer is visible underneath the mask. "Wish I could say the same," he drawls, cold and cutting.

Wilbur shrugs, unaffected. "I try," is all he says before he steps back, twisting to face Q. His accent winds around his words like George's does. "Clear."

Schlatt echoes the sentiment, and the Crows step forward. Eret hurries to check Quackity’s second for weapons, while Sapnap pats down Quackity. He moves with self-assured grace, shooting Quackity a grin that seems far too intimate for a standoff like this.

The other man smirks at their close proximity. “Jesus, man, take me to dinner first,” Quackity says when Sapnap moves lower in his search. It practically falls off his lips, like the flirtatious remark is easier than breathing.

Sapnap flushes a little, but his voice is steady when he shoots back, “No thanks. You’re too short for me.”

Quackity splutters as Sapnap straightens and steps away, and George hides a grin in the darkness up above.

Eret follows a second later. “They’re clear,” Eret tells Dream, who nods curtly.

“Good,” he says, before turning his attention back to his rival. When he speaks, it's like he's breathing frost into the air. There's a sort of cool detachment, the voice of a man who wants to get shit done. _Dream doesn't need a reason._ “Enough with the pleasantries. What brings you gentlemen to this side of town?”

“Your turf,” Quackity says, the corners of his lips quirking in a way that George immediately catalogs as dangerous. He’s sure this man has tricks up his sleeve, so he scans the skyline to see if the guards have moved at all. It only takes a moment for him to spot the first figure; the soldier above the East Gate, whose rifle is very much _not_ slung across his back. George straightens, pressing into the shadows as he moves quietly towards him. "I want it."

Down below, Dream stares. The mask betrays no emotion. "You're stupid if you think I'm going to let you have it."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Quackity says. His voice is like boiling water; it scalds George from the inside out as he scrambles over roof tiles, past chimneys, behind eaves. "I want Fifth Harbor. And you're going to give it to me."

"Or what?" Dream challenges. George's breath comes hard and fast as he races across the rooftops. "Don't play dumb, Quackity. It doesn't suit you."

George inhales sharply, the cool night air like a knife against his throat.

Quackity makes a wounded noise in his throat, but his eyes glitter with menace. "Oh, yeah?"

"Fifth Harbor isn't up for negotiation." Dream spreads his hands, flexes his arms. The black suit he's wearing stretches over pure muscle. "I'm fairly sure you're threatening me, Quackity."

Quackity's grin, when it comes, is acidic. "You got that right," he says. "What if I told you I've got two city guards with rifles pointed at your heads right now?"

 _Two?_ George cuts his gaze across the Exchange as he runs, feet light, and he nearly trips. Both soldiers have their guns pointed directly at the Crows. _Fuck._

Dream does not lose his cool. "I'd say that's an expensive proposition."

"I've got cash."

"Really?" Dream says, and his grin splits into something sinister. "Because I heard that you've just about emptied your coffers getting these guards in your pocket."

He's stalling, now, giving George more time to reach the soldiers. Thankfully, with a huff of breath, George reaches the first guard—a boy of about sixteen, hands trembling on his rifle. He wraps himself around the kid like death's embrace, pressing the knife into his ribs. The boy gasps, rifle falling to the rooftop with a clatter. "Please," the kid says, voice shaking, "please, don't kill me—"

George digs the knife into his ribs a little more, just to shut him up. "Be _quiet,"_ he hisses, "I'm trying to _listen."_

The kid gulps. His lips fall closed. George keeps listening.

"You're really using kids to do your dirty work," Dream says down below, amusement curling through the words. It's a bit hypocritical, George thinks, but there's no one to voice this sentiment to, so he stays silent. "It's cute, really. But you should know, Quackity, that _I_ am the one in control. Always."

Quackity looks less certain of himself. "What are you—"

"The two guards posted here tonight," Dream hums, like he's enjoying himself. Beside him, Sapnap bares his teeth in a sharp smile. "It must have cost you a pretty penny to get their names. Two _boys_ , actually. Sixteen-year-olds. Do you really trust them to shoot?"

Quackity whips around at a speed that makes George dizzy. "Purpled!" he yells, _screeches._ "Fire!"

Of course, there's no shot. The kid in George's arms whimpers. 

"What have you _done,_ " Quackity demands. "What the _fuck_ have you been meddling with, Dream?"

"I deal in secrets, not cash," Dream informs him with a glance towards George. The intent in his gaze is clear. George moves quickly, quietly, deals the kid a blow across the head with his weapon. Purpled crumples to the ground. He'll have an awful headache when he wakes, but he's not dead, and he should be grateful; Dream never lets grown men leave alive. "Information holds more sway than money ever can, Quackity. You and your little casino can't possibly keep up with me."

Quackity's anger twists around his words like smoke. "You're wrong," he hisses. "Tommy! Fire!"

George feels anxiety curl through him as he makes eye contact with the blond boy across the Exchange. Half a second later, a shot splits the air, and black blood spills from Eret's chest. The Crow's eyes widen, and they look down as their knees crumple.

"Eret!" Sapnap cries, and he falls to his knees next to his friend. Dream stays standing, impossibly straight, still holding eye contact with Quackity. There's a quirk at the corner of his lips, and George feels his stomach twist into knots. Clearly, Dream holds all the cards here, even as their friend bleeds out onto dirty cobblestones. "You bastard!"

Quackity's expression morphs into some form of shock. "Shoot him in the _head,_ Tommy," Quackity says, and the words string together in desperate confusion. There's no second shot, though, just the sound of Sapnap's whimpers and Eret's gasping breaths. 

"Not going the way you planned, Quackity?" Dream says, almost a coo.

Quackity looks between Eret and Dream, eyes wide, and hisses, "What did you do?"

"Dream?" Confusion clutches onto Sapnap's words as he looks up at his brother, his _friend,_ eyes wide.

"Oh, fuck this," Quackity says. He cuts his gaze sideways to Wilbur. In a fluid motion, Wilbur pulls something from his coat pocket—the outline of a pistol shines in the moonlight—and tosses it to Quackity.

Dream's grin could cut through metal. "At last," he says, spreading his arms wide. George feels anxiety thrum through his veins at the sight below him: Dream, welcoming the shot as Quackity levels the gun at him. "Was this all for show, then?"

"Your time is up, Dream," Quackity says, the words ugly. "Do you think the Barrel will miss you all that much? I'm sure there are ten more of you right around the corner."

"Sapnap, you can stop crying over Eret now," Dream says. George watches as realization hits his friend head-on, and Sapnap groans aloud as he straightens.

"Oh, Eret, you dumb motherfucker," he says as he stands up, dusting his hands off. On the ground, Eret coughs up blood. "How do you miss a pistol like that?"

"They didn't miss it," Dream interjects, staring straight at Quackity. "They were paid off. Quite a pretty sum, too."

"Still," Quackity allows, "this isn't looking good for you, is it?"

"You don't want to shoot me," Dream says. "You _won't_ shoot me, in fact. You're going to pack up your little three-man circus and scurry off."

Quackity's brows crease. "Why the fuck would I do that?" He steps forward, presses the pistol into Dream's sternum. "I _will_ shoot you, bitch. Right here, right now."

"I don't think so," Dream says. His voice is like ice; it drips down George's neck, forcing a full-body shudder. "Nineteen Kensington Way," he adds, and Quackity _stops_. His eyes widen, his breath comes faster, his fingers shake on the trigger.

_"What?"_

“You know that address. Your boyfriend,” Dream says. George doesn’t have time to focus on the way his voice lilts, almost softening, because he needs to take advantage of the stall. Beside Dream, Sapnap stiffens. “Karl, was it?”

Quackity’s face darkens. He seems to go through the five stages of grief in about two seconds. “You keep your fucking mouth shut,” he hisses.

George makes it over the second roof, feet scrambling for a foothold as he ducks behind a chimney. Thankfully, the second soldier hasn’t spotted him yet; his gaze is fixed on the sight of his rifle. With a flick of George’s wrist, he has a knife in his left hand, too, and he uses the momentum to keep going.

“He’s a real pretty one,” Dream says. He sounds like he believes it, and George gets an image of Karl in his mind: soft brown hair curling around pale temples, colorful fingernails, charming smile. “It’d be a shame if he got caught in the crossfire, don’t you think?”

Quackity looks like hell warmed over. “Don’t you dare touch him,” he snarls, and he surges forward only to be caught by Wilbur.

"The minute you shoot me," Dream says, barreling onwards, "my men will be on their way. They have their orders." He switches direction in a heartbeat, a complete non-sequitur: "Do you like fire, Quackity?"

Q's eyes widen. "No, please—"

"My men will set fire to the apartment," Dream says, nonchalant, as if he's discussing the weather. There's something sick about the way he threatens an innocent man's death, but George can't bring himself to care. The glint in Dream's eyes makes his blood rush in his ears. Saints, he wants to kiss him. "You can see the smoke from here; I wonder if you'll hear his screams, too."

"Fuck you," Quackity spits. He takes a jerky step back; Wilbur has to catch his sleeve, his own face alight in anger. _"Fuck you._ You're one sick son of a bitch. You are _scum,_ Dream."

Dream smiles. If his earlier grin was cold, this one is heat. It stifles them in humidity, makes sweat drip down the back of George's neck. "Sure, I'm scum," he says easily. "I'm the kind of scum you scrape off the bottom of the Barrel. So don't fucking _mess with me,_ Quackity."

"Fuck you, man," Quackity says again, almost brokenly.

George reaches the soldier prepared this time, with a knife in each hand. The kid screeches when George tackles him, putting the sixteen-year-old in a headlock. "Fuck—you—bitch," he intones as George increases the pressure on his neck. Finally, the boy slumps against the roof, out cold. George lets out a sigh of relief and extricates himself from the grip.

Down below, something in Dream's expression shifts, like a string pulling too tight. He snaps, surging forward to grab Quackity's chin in his hand. The pistol clatters to the ground, forgotten, as Q squeaks in surprise. "You don't talk to me like that," Dream says. His grip looks painful.

"I—I'm sorry," Quackity chokes out. He looks pathetic: eyes red, jaw locked in Dream's grip.

“I could kill you right now." It's not a question, George knows. Dream is close enough to run Quackity through with a knife, to snap his neck, to shoot him in the head. "So just be grateful,” Dream hums, running his thumb down the length of Quackity’s jaw in a way that makes the other man stiffen, “that I’m showing you mercy today.”

Quackity's cheeks flush in humiliation, and Dream's hand drops like he’s been burned. “Go,” Dream hisses, and Quackity scrambles back. "Get your ugly face off my fucking land."

Quackity goes. He _sprints,_ actually, with his men close on his heels, clearly desperate to get home to his lover. George watches them go as he scrambles down from the roof, his hands finding easy purchase on a drainpipe. His knives are tucked away back into his wrist holsters as his feet hit the ground with a soft _oof._ He straightens, still in the shadows behind his friends, and very pointedly avoids looking at Eret's body.

Punz and Sapnap are celebrating with a convoluted handshake, just as they always do after a successful job, but there's a uneasy tension to it. Dream stands in front of them, still masked, staring down at his fingers as though he can't believe what he's just done.

His friends finish the handshake and step back. George doesn’t miss the way that Sapnap's gaze wanders until he stares after Quackity, expression troubled. “Were you really going to burn down his apartment?" Sapnap says, sounding distressed.

Dream shakes his head, and Sapnap’s shoulders fall in relief. “You think I can spare the men for that?” he asks. Even though the words are laced with humor, there’s something darker underneath. “Karl is safe in his little bed, sound asleep.”

Sapnap groans. "I can't believe you," he complains, but there's no heat it in.

George chooses that moment to step forward. Moonlight tumbles over his shoulders, through his dark hair, glinting off his knives. “Quackity is going to hate you for this,” he says. The men in front of him startle—all of them except Dream. His eyes brighten at the sight of George, and he reaches up to pull the mask from his face. It's a little disturbing to see the transformation, but George holds his gaze.

"Holy shit, George," Sapnap groans, knocking into George with enough force that the other man stumbles. "Can you quit doing that? It's freaky, man."

"Sorry," George offers, even though he's not apologetic in the least. "That was quite a show. Why didn't you kill him?"

Dream shrugs. "Shame makes men talk," he says, voice a lilting melody. "Quackity went broke trying to pay people off. He won't hesitate to spread rumors, and if my reputation sinks—well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

 _Yes,_ George thinks. Out loud, he says, "You scare me."

Dream's eyes twinkle. Amusement and desire curl together like a pair of mischievous cats in his tone when he says, "Good," and pulls his mask up once again to hide his face. With a motion to Punz, he starts walking. George watches their figures retreat as he leaves through the West Gate, eyes straining until Dream and Punz disappear into the shadows proper.

He turns to his other friend. "That was fucking insane," George breathes, letting adrenaline crash over him for the first time tonight. 

Sapnap nods, swallowing audibly. "Dream has all the cards," he says.

George believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i know in the book kaz leads the dregs, not the crows. but _bird imagery,_ people. this is probably one of my favorite things i've written and i'm lowkey kind of proud of it :D unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> if you enjoyed, let me know what you think!! comments make me incredibly happy :P


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